


laser guns and jetpacks and a space lion

by fiordilatte



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drunkenness, F/M, Gen, Multiverse, Nihilism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 13:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11898546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiordilatte/pseuds/fiordilatte
Summary: Pidge and Lance forever and forever a hundred years!  Pidge is an alcoholic comm spec who drags Lance along on interdimensional benders.  No matter which dimension she’s from, a Pidge needs her Lance.  Welcome to your reckoning, baby!(An R&M parody featuring the Rickest Katie and the Mortiest Lance.)





	laser guns and jetpacks and a space lion

**Author's Note:**

> Once s3 introduced that multiverse canon, it was over lol  
> Any science depicted in this fic is about as realistic as the science in Rick and Morty, so not very. May contain R&M spoilers. Takes place in a Voltron multiverse, so anything that can happen, will happen. Let’s go for a wild ride in the darkest timeline :D

_[Dimension P-137]_

“Lance!  Come on.  We... We gotta go!”

The lights flick on with no warning whatsoever and Lance Santiago winces, cracking one eye open blearily.  He’s swathed in bedsheets, snugly cocooned like a caterpillar undergoing metamorphosis.  Warm and cozy.  A beautiful butterfly enjoying some much needed beauty sleep....

“Lance!  Let’s go!” the voice repeats urgently.

“Wha...?”  There’s a rustling noise, followed by a deafening crash.  What the hell is going on?  Is he being robbed?  His dorm is locked with a biometric scanner that’s configured to his freakin’ DNA, so no one should be able to break in.  He grumbles under his breath.  It’s way too early for this kind of burglary shit.  

Unannounced and uninvited, Pidge Gunderson stumbles into the dorm, a wine bottle clutched in one hand, and manages to trip over the carpet.  He splashes booze at the foot of the bunk and curses loudly enough for Lance to jolt awake to full consciousness.

“Dude.  Pidge?!  Wh-What are you doing?”  He squints at his alarm clock, then whips his head back to the other boy, who appears to be nursing a head injury.  “We have class in four hours!  How did you get in here?  Are you... are you _drinking?_ ”  

“We gotta go, Lance.  We, we gotta get out of here.  Oof.  I got a surprise for you.”  Even from three feet away Lance can smell the alcohol on Pidge’s breath - in fact, his comm spec’s entire body reeks of booze.  Like, every kind of booze imaginable, from vodka to rum to beer to wine to something that kind of smells like orange juice?  It’s like a sangria screwdriver that was concocted in the pits of hell.  Lance isn’t much of a drinker, and he sure as heck wouldn’t have pegged Pidge as one, either.  

“It’s the middle of the night, what’re you talking about?!” he demands.  God, the lights in his dorm are bright.  “I’m going back to sleep.  You can... explain yourself in the morning.”

“Dude, come on...”  Pidge grunts and grabs him by the ankles, and starts forcibly dragging him out of bed.  Why does he have to be so stubborn?  Lance lets him struggle until he feels his head thump on the floor, and he groggily decides that humouring Pidge is going to be a less painful option than having a tiny alcoholic drag him out of his dorm until his ankles pop out of their sockets.  

“Hey!  Don’t - ow!  I can walk, you don’t have to pull so hard!”  The faster they get this over with, the faster he can go back to sleep.  He stumbles to his feet, rubbing the sleep and crust from his eyes and glancing forlornly at his warm sheets.

Pidge scampers ahead of him, swaying and hiccupping with each movement.  He follows Gunderson’s uneven footsteps down the dark hallway, whispering sweet nothings like _what the fuck are you doing_ and _dude, this better be quick_.  For the record, Pidge looks like shit:  glasses askew on his face, pale cheeks tinged red, hair a wild uncombed mess that frizzes out in every possible direction.  And for whatever reason, he’s wearing an oversized white lab coat that touches the floor and trails behind him with every step, like a mad scientist’s version of a cape.  They walk in semi-silence interspersed with drunken hiccups (Pidge) and occasional Spanish curse words when English just doesn’t seem like enough (Lance), until they’re standing smack dab in the entryway of the Garrison’s aircraft hangar.

It’s a restricted area - totally off limits until cadets have at least a two-year diploma under their belts.  Lance lets out a low, impressed whistle.  Pidge definitely did something Very Bad to get level 3 access.  There are rows upon rows of fighter ships, a couple of cargo units, and some transport planes, all sporting the shiny, prestigious Galaxy Garrison logo.  Official flight units, huh?  His mouth waters at the thought of getting to pilot one of these babies for real one day.

And parked right in the middle of this glorious display is one oddity, one ship that isn’t quite like the others.  It’s a...  Lance blinks, and finds himself doing a double take.  It’s a lion-shaped ship.  What the fuck?

It’s painted bright green, is about the same size as a standard fighter ship, and looks like it’ll fall apart at any second.  Lance doesn’t even think it’s functional, but his intoxicated buddy Pidge seems to be practically vibrating with excitement next to him (or maybe he’s just, you know, drunk).

“This is Green,” Gunderson proclaims, tripping on his own feet as he bounds over to the thing.  “I built her out of junk parts I found around campus,” he rasps, placing a hand on the lion-ship’s front leg and rapping it with his knuckles.  His voice sounds rougher than normal tonight, and he slings his words fast and loose.  “What... what do you think, Lance?”

“Uh... is this the surprise?  Um, it’s cool, I guess?  Good job, Pidge!”  He pats the sandy-haired boy on the shoulder.  “Can we go back to sleep now?”

It’s four in the morning, and Lance, freezing in nothing but a t-shirt and boxer shorts, somehow allows Pidge to buckle him into this lion contraption that resembles a low budget carnival ride.  Upon closer inspection, he can see that it’s part cardboard, part recycled ship parts, and part crushed beer cans that Lance is pretty sure a seventeen year old space cadet shouldn’t have easy access to.  It smells, horribly, of booze and shattered dreams.  

He blames the tiredness.  Maybe this is just a horrible nightmare and he should lay off the espresso shots and naproxen.  There’s no way this can be real.

Gunderson clambers into the only other cockpit seat, which, horrifyingly enough, is the pilot’s seat.  Dangling his feet over the pedals, he twists his body around so he’s facing Lance, who just stares back, still completely flummoxed.  

“Aw geez Pidge, are you... okay?” he manages, thinking that on the off chance this isn’t a nightmare, it has _got_ to be some twisted form of a cry for help.  Which honestly isn’t better, but he still has to be a good teammate.  “Do you want to talk about it?”  Maybe he’ll take Pidge out for lunch tomorrow.  Yeah.  Ditch class, grab some food, walk his friend through his monster hangover and chat about why college benders are bad.  Sure, he gets the appeal of drinking - this is a stressful year at the Garrison, and everyone has their vices, but isn’t this a _little_ excessive?

The ship’s engine sputters to life as Pidge twists a key into some sort of ignition.  And just like that, they’re off, speeding down the airstrip and jetting into the dark sky before Lance can get another word out.  All completely unsupervised, of course, with no backup plan whatsoever.  They’re not even wearing proper gear!  And there’s no ID tag on this ship, so it’ll be impossible for anyone to track them.  Oh no, he’s starting to sound like Hunk.  

“I had to make a bomb, Lance.”  Pidge laughs, clearly out of it, and takes another swig from his wine bottle.  Lance notices that it’s already half-empty.  “Had to do it.  We’re gonna have a whole fresh start.”

“You made a bomb?!” he shouts, bolting upright in his seat.  He gapes at the other boy.  “Is that just a terrible joke?  Are, are you doing a bit or something?”

“Gonna drop it down there, create a whole fresh start,” Pidge repeats.  His eyes are glassy.  “Biiiig neutrino bomb, Lance.”  He gestures with his hands, spreading his arms wide.  “It’ll wipe out civilization.  Ka-boom.  It’ll be just you and me.  And that’s - that’s the surprise, Lance.”

“What about my  family, Pidge?!” he sputters.  “And my friends?  And the rest of the planet?  You can’t just decide to do planetary genocide at four in the morning!”  God, why is this even a conversation that he’s having?  Was he just so bad at bonding with Pidge that he had to turn to mass destruction as a coping mechanism?  

The ship’s AI comes on, speaking in a robotic female voice:  

> _Arming neutrino bomb._

Lance’s blood runs cold.   _Ay a la verga._ Okay, holy shit, this is real.

Pidge coughs, his breath still smelling strongly of alcohol.  There’s a wide smile on his face, almost as if he’s genuinely happy and not in a booze-induced stupor.  It’s a nice smile, too; for a second his eyes seem to sparkle behind his crooked glasses, and his freckled cheeks form tiny dimples.  Lance thinks it might be nice to see Pidge smile like that more often, possibly under less insane circumstances where they’re not violating about five million flight regulations.  

“It’s... it’s like an Irish car bomb... except neither of us is Irish!”  Pidge laughs maniacally, like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world.  

Flying back and forth and up and down with zero regards for inertia or G-force, Gunderson steers the ship haphazardly, not seeming to care where they’re going.  He’s totally fearless.  The early morning sky is dotted with a few faint stars, and the deep orange glow of sunrise steals over the horizon.  By no means is Pidge a bad pilot when he’s sober, but this is obviously a different story.  Raw talent can only take you so far when you’re under the influence.  Lance swears there’s even a shaky attempt at the fucking _Herbst maneuver_ in this weird, rickety, sort-of-lion-shaped ship that clearly wasn’t built with aerodynamics in mind.  

The Garrison campus becomes a faint speck beneath them as they continue their ascent; trees and grass start to zip by in dark blurs, and steep mountains become tiny molehills.  Whipping past the city outskirts at 400 knots and an altitude of almost 40,000 feet, Pidge tears along on his drunken joyride, Lance reluctantly in tow.  Apartments and highrises are little dots in the background, nothing more than winking lights in the distance.  They plough into clouds and hurtle through the air, the ship cutting a neon green arc in the sky.  Civilization already seems so far away.

Pidge performs a wobbly one-handed aileron roll, guiding the ship in a full 360 rotation while empty beer cans rattle loudly from multiple directions.  Is this how it all ends?  

“Oh my god,” the brunet breathes, losing himself to the insanity.  The seatbelt digs into his chest.  He feels his brain cells slipping away.  Bile rises up in his throat, and he feels like he’s being slowly crushed to death.  On the bright side, this is a hell of a way to develop a tolerance for high acceleration.  The G-force rips into him, more intensely than any simulation.  It’s worse than training in the centrifuge, and he’s blacked out at practice more than once.  

“God isn’t real, Lance.  Hate to break it to you,” Pidge hiccups.  He steers with one hand, the other permanently affixed to his wine bottle.  “There’s - there’s no point to anything.  Existence is meaningless.”

As a good Roman Catholic boy, Lance is slightly offended.  As a teenage Garrison cadet who has yet to go on an actual flight mission, he is absolutely terrified.  So he does the only logical thing he can think of:  he undoes his seatbelt the instant Pidge stops accelerating and launches himself forward, hands outstretched so he can attempt to pry the wine bottle from his friend’s sticky hands.  “Dude, give me that!  You’re not even twenty-one!”

Thus begins the battle between Lance Santiago, serial masturbator, and Pidge Gunderson, multitasking alcoholic.  He’s got an advantage in the form of longer limbs, but Pidge is nimble and scrappy where Lance is sluggish and sleep-deprived, fighting back yawns and suppressing the urge to pass out.  They trade half-hearted blows, flailing at each other in the cockpit of Pidge’s flying recycled cardboard lion.  

“It’s, it’s fine, Lance.  I’m gonna be just fine.  I’m Italian, Lance, we start drinking when we’re six.  Wine makes you classy.”  Pidge takes another deep gulp, drunkenly swatting Lance’s hands away.  His head tilts forward into the control board.  “Issalll... normal.  We’re fine.”  

“You’re insane!” he protests.  “Take us back to the Garrison!”

“I’m smart,” Gunderson retorts proudly, in an extremely intoxicated sort of way.   He wipes a string of drool from the corner of his mouth.  “I’m a... I’m a goddamn _genius_.”

“How much did you drink?!” he shouts.  

If there’s one thing that Lance has learned tonight, it’s that Pidge Gunderson is a fucking heavyweight champion of binge drinking.  He would be more impressed if he wasn’t scared shitless.  Lance has broken his fair share of rules before, but he’s never misbehaved on this large a scale.  

“That’s it!  I’m taking the wheel.”  He throws another lopsided punch.  “We have _class_ tomorrow!  This isn’t funny, Pidge.  I’m not - I’m not just gonna let you destroy the world tonight!”  

Pidge heaves a few laboured breaths.  “Fine, I’ll land the ship.  I’ll - I’ll land Green, Lance.  Is that, is that what you want?  Sit down.  Sheesh.”  Gunderson hazards out landing coordinates and drops altitude immediately.  No heads up, no nothing.

“Communications officer my ass,” Lance wheezes.   

His ears pop painfully as the ship dives into a helter-skelter descent, its frame creaking with overexertion.  The engine whines.  Lance tries to put on a brave face, but his jaw is frozen in a silent scream.  Without further ado, Pidge lands them on a sand dune in the middle of a desert that he’s never even heard of, the scenery overlooking spiny cacti and sad little tumbleweeds that drift along the vista.

As he unglues himself from his seat, he’s stunned to find that they’re more or less still in one piece.  An irrational part of Lance is suddenly really jealous of the fact that Pidge, completely shitfaced, is somehow a better pilot than him, because he knows that he wouldn’t have been able to stick that landing.  It’s almost _offensive_ _._ He curses, fighting back another yawn.  The fatigue is killing him.  Pidge is killing him.  This is so not where he wants to be right now.  

“Shit!” Gunderson groans, throwing his upper half out the window and making retching noises.  Puking his guts out over the side of the lion/ship/thingy as Lance watches in dumbfounded silence, Pidge adds, “This was all just a test, Lance.”  He chuckles, then throws up again, holding a hand to his head as he does so.  “Oh, _fuck_.”

“A test?” he prompts, narrowing his eyes.  He’s beyond annoyed, and more than a little scared, but he’s still curious.  

“See, this was just a - just a team bonding session,” the other boy continues.  Pidge opens the door next to him and limply slides out, falling on his face.  Several dozen beer cans follow suit.  “Just you and me.  Pidge and Lance, forever and forever.  You always wanted to be bros, right?”

He feels his heart leap at the thought, which is so lame, because he shouldn’t be able to forgive Pidge this easily.  But the promise of team bonding is too strong for eager saps like Lance, even if it feels like he’s grasping at straws just to get some half-assed validation.  “Really?  You mean it?”  

Pidge rolls over onto his back, his face and clothes streaked with a colourful combination of sand, vomit, and about fifty different classifications of alcohol.  “I dunno, why not?”  

“¡ _Maldita sea,_ Pidge!  God damn it!”  He shakes his head in disappointment, and promptly buries his face in his hands.  “We could have had a moment just now!  Or like, even fifteen percent of a moment!”  It would have made up for at least a little bit of this mess of a night.

Gunderson nods distractedly.  “Yeah, whatever.  Also, Lance.   _Hey._ Lookie.  Also.  I’m a girl.  Ugghhhh.”  Pidge’s eyes droop shut.  

_“What?”_

He barely has time to register his shock when the ship’s AI comes on again.  

> _Neutrino bomb armed._

Lance screams.

When he looks back, Pidge is doubled over.  Whether he’s _(she’s?)_ laughing or still puking, Lance can’t tell.  


End file.
